


Lollipops and Roses

by helliongoddess



Category: Mad Men
Genre: Childhood, Childhood Memories, Gen, Parenthood, the '60's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helliongoddess/pseuds/helliongoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally helps out with one of Betty's social functions, and it becomes a bit of an eye-opening event for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lollipops and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Mad Men is the property of AMC and its creators. I make no claims, and make no money on this work of fanfiction. 
> 
> Author's note: the title is from a song used in the Season Two Mad Men Soundtrack. Certain events in this really happened, but where, when, and to whom, will have to remain a mystery, at least for now.

**_Lollipops and Roses_ **

 

I always hated it when my mother had her little social gatherings. For days and even weeks beforehand, she would go into this absolutely manic frenzy of cleaning and cooking, driving all of us - even Carla (especially Carla) - practically insane with her litanies of perfectionist demands.  Looking back, it was one of the many things that led me to realize early in my life that my mother's main motivator in every single thing she did almost always boiled down to some variation on "how does it look, what will other people think?" or "how will this reflect on me?"  I guess to be fair, a certain amount of that was just Mother being a typical woman of her time and social situation, not to mention a product of what I now understand was her own somewhat difficult childhood with a critical, demanding mother.   But I think it was more: I think it reflected a kind of malignant narcissism deep in Betty Draper that made her perpetually focused on and unhappy with herself. It also, most of the time, made her a pretty lousy mother, and  - I suspect- a fairly lousy wife, in any ways other than the shiny superficial ones. Betty's world revolved around Betty, and everything and everyone else was just some form of an accessory necessary to her role on her grand stage.

I remember one time when I was about seven or eight, Mother was having one of her more formal afternoon ladies groups' get-togethers. Sometimes she had smaller, less fancy gatherings, like for the neighborhood Garden Club, where she would do what I thought were fun things, like tiny tea sandwiches and petit fours, and pretty hand-made butter mints, served with the tea service in the living room, and it would be a little more casual.  But this one was to be a real no-holds-barred production: it was probably her turn to host the Ossining Junior League, or something like that - something with a bunch of women she really wanted to impress.   I remember she was always involved with some group or another like that:  I suspect it was mostly a way to occupy her time, even though she never seemed to particularly enjoy doing it, and she almost seemed to resent all the time and effort she had to put into it.  Sometimes I would hear her lording it over Daddy, when they fought: she'd be telling him how he didn't appreciate how hard she worked on those things, how she was trying to advance their social status and establish their standing in the community.  Funny thing was, Daddy really didn't seem to care. 

Anyway, this time she was pulling out all stops: Carla was polishing the silver to within an inch of its life, and hauling out the big noisy electric floor waxing machine, to give the pine floors a fresh shiny coat of Bowling Alley Wax.  I can still remember the fresh citrusy smell of the furniture polish she used to dust and polish all the wood furniture. Mother had picked up the fresh crescent rolls, along with the dessert - buttery Russian Wedding cookies and tiny pecan and lemon tarts - that she'd ordered from the bakery in town.  Carla's homemade Chicken Salad and Sour Cream Potato Salad were chilling in the fridge, along with salad plates with tomato aspic on iceberg lettuce, with little decorative piped flowers of mayonnaise and leaves of parsley on top.

Mother's best linen and china were laid out on the dining room table, and there were even brand new slender dark red candles in the silver candelabras, to match the centerpiece of red roses and mums that Mother had had delivered from the florist that morning. She could have done it much better herself, she said, but who had the time? I wrinkled my nose and ran from the room to get away from the overpowering smell of the fresh roses: to me their cloying scent smelled like something more dead than alive.  It reminded me of the stinky perfume worn by the old ladies that worked in the Principal's Office at school, and it gave me a headache.  To this day, while I appreciate their beauty and romance, I really don't care for the smell of red roses.

As the appointed hour approached, Mother shut the dog in the back yard and nervously sent me off to dress up in the clothes she had laid out for me.  The sitter arrived just in time to whisk Bobby away for the afternoon: Mother was taking no chances on my brother pulling one of his boneheaded stunts in the middle of her party, and ruining everything for her.  Truthfully, the way my brother was back then, I can't blame her for that one.  Bobby was a perpetual accident looking for a place to happen: as Grandpa Gene used to say, he could screw up a one-car funeral. 

I waved goodbye to my little brother as he reluctantly went downstairs to leave, wishing I could go with him and escape the whole stupid ordeal ahead of me.  It was funny: I really just didn't want to be there, but he was dying to stay, the dummy.   All he could see was the shiny table, loaded with fancy food, and all I could imagine was a long afternoon of being stuck inside, stuffed into uncomfortable clothes, having to smile and be polite to a bunch of women I didn't know, and being forced to choke on their cigarette smoke and empty their stinky ashtrays.  Of course, like at all Mother and Daddy's parties, I'd also be expected to tend bar for them, if any of them wanted a mixed drink (and I knew there were always several that would.)  Even though I was only seven or eight, I could already mix a mean Gin and Tonic, Martini, Manhattan, and any number of other drinks without batting an eye.  Daddy had seen to that, but I had kind of enjoyed it, because I liked anything that made him happy or got his approval.      

I did my best to wriggle into into my crinoline slip and my dark blue velveteen dress (I had wanted the pink one, but Mother said dark blue was "more slimming on bigger girls,") and slipped on my best lace-trimmed ankle socks and my black patent mary-janes.  I _hated_ those shoes: they had come to represent so many things I disliked - stuffy dinners with Daddy's work people (except Mr. Sterling - I liked him, and I think he liked me,) Mommy and Daddy's grown-up parties, and going to church  - of course, Mother would never admit it, but we only on went Easter and Christmas. The dumb things always pinched my feet, they never fit right, and worst of all, they just seemed like _baby shoes_!  I'd much rather have had something more grown-up looking: some flats like Mother's, or even some decent Buster Browns.  As ready as I'd ever be, I trudged dutifully to Mother's room, where  she was putting the finishing touches on her own attire and makeup, and presented myself for inspection.

"Ugh," she huffed, taking a quick puff on the cigarette that was burning away in the ashtray on her dresser, "your hair looks like a damned rat's nest. Come _here_ ," she commanded, pointing the royal finger at her feet. That began the dreaded and seemingly endless ritual of detangling and braiding my hair, which five times out of ten ended with me in tears and Mother using colorful language. (Let's just say Betty did _not_ possess a gentle or patient touch when it came to hairdressing.) Finally, she turned me around and surveyed her work.  "I guess that will have to do," she sighed.  "Honestly, didn't we just buy that dress, Sally Draper? It looks tight on you already. You've simply _got_ to stop eating so much."

Rather than argue with her and tell her that the dress was actually two years old, I looked down at my shoes and held my tongue.  I had learned the hard way that party days were not the time to challenge my mother about _anything,_ no matter how right I was.   "Here," she said as she fastened a short strand of pink coral pearls around my neck. "That looks a little better.  Now, don't you _dare_ lose those, they were my mother's - you understand?"  I nodded my assent somberly.  "Now, go on downstairs, and see if Carla needs any help before our guests arrive." As I started down the stairs, heaving a silent sigh of relief to be through with at least that part of the afternoon's ordeal, a tense voice shouted after me, "and don't you _dare_ get anything on that dress! Stay clean, or else - I mean it!"

"Yes ma'am."

Shortly after I made it to the kitchen and settled in on the stool a few feet from Carla (who made a point of telling me I looked quite pretty before assuring me she had everything under control,) the guests began to arrive.  Until Mother came downstairs and made her entrance, Carla answered the door and ushered the company in. She was looking very crisp and a little uncomfortable herself, in her fancy starched black and white maid's uniform -  I much preferred seeing her in her regular everyday clothes, looking like the Carla I had known and loved for as long as I could remember.

Once all the ladies had arrived, Mother summoned me in to make my appearance. She introduced me, and I curtseyed as I had been taught all proper young ladies were supposed to do, feeling like an awkward idiot as I did it.  I stood there uncomfortably for a minute, uncertain what I was supposed to do next, before Mother not-so-discreetly elbowed me in the side and I remembered the real reason I was there.   "Can I offer any of you ladies a drink?" I said, with as much formality and grace as I could muster under the circumstances.

"Why, isn't she just darling, Betty?!  Why yes, dear, I'd just love a whiskey sour, if you think you can manage it."

"Oh, yes, ma'am," I said, giving  the woman a smugly reassuring smile.  I set to work filling the orders for the ladies that wanted booze, while Carla tended to the few tea-totalers that simply wanted coffee, tea, or lemonade.  After I finished my bartending, I curtseyed again to excuse myself, and gratefully fled again to the sanctuary of the kitchen.

Sometime later, Mother rang her little - but surprisingly loud - bell (I could have sworn I saw Carla flinch when she heard it) that meant it was time to serve the food, and I heard the heavy scrape of dining room chairs across pine floors as the ladies moved from the couches to the table.  After Carla handled all the serving, she and I settled in at the kitchen table with small plates of food for ourselves. I loved the chicken and potato salad and the crescent rolls, but I nearly gagged when she made me try a tiny bit of the tomato aspic. It tasted like someone had tried to make ketchup into Jello -what a dumb idea! And then to put mayonnaise on top of it - yuck!

Mother called me in to make a few more drinks before I could get my dessert, which exasperated me, because I was really looking forward to those tarts and cookies.   I'd had them before, and everyone in Ossining knew how good they were: you could smell the buttery sweetness just riding by the bakery.  While I was mixing the drinks the ladies were all laughing and giggling, and I could tell Mother must be pretty happy with the way the party was going:  she was talking and telling stories too, not just sitting there and looking bored and mad like she does sometimes.  I was concentrating on getting the mixture just right for another Manhattan for Mrs. Carlson, when Mother interrupted me. She was actually giggling a bit, too, almost girlishly.

"Sally, I need  you to go get something for me, so I can show it to the ladies.  It's in my room: there's a manila envelope in the lingerie drawer.  Go get it for me, please."   
Before I could ask her anything, she was off on a tear again, talking and laughing as she spoke with the ladies.  "Honestly, girls, you just _have_ to see these pictures. I mean, it _was_ fun, but I was so young! But I'll admit, I did love a lot of things about modeling - the clothes were _wonderful,_ and the photographers were quite handsome sometimes _._ But I had to stay SO thin, and they make you wear _so much_ makeup, it's quite hard on your complexion...."

Clearly, any attempts to get a word in edgewise, to ask for clarification of her command, would only be construed as a rude interruption at this point, so I dutifully handed Mrs. Carlson her Manhattan and trudged upstairs to Mother's room.  Problem was, as I looked around, I didn't see _anything_ remotely resembling a long-grey drawer anywhere.  I looked all over her room, I looked in her closet, I even looked  under her bed, to see if there was some long-grey culprit hiding under there that I might be unaware of. But no such thing.  And just what the heck was a...."vanilla envelope," anyway?  I poked around the whole room in a desultory manner, hoping something that looked like a vanilla envelope might jump up and reveal itself to me, but alas, nothing.  Finally, fearing Mother's wrath if I took too long, I went back down, and stood in the doorway of the dining room waiting for an opening, coughing softly now and then to try to get her attention.

Finally she noticed me.  Her face quickly clouded up when she realized I was empty-handed.  "Sally, where's my envelope?"

"I couldn't find it..."

"I specifically told you, Sally, it's in my _lingerie_ drawer.  You _know_ where that is."

"I looked, but I didn't see it..." I insisted.

"Sally Beth Draper, you know _darn well_ where it is, you see me using it _every day_!"

By now, I was thoroughly confused. I had looked over every square inch of my mother's room, and the one thing I _was_ sure of is that there was _nothing_ remotely resembling a long grey drawer _anywhere_ in that bedroom.

"But, _Mother_..." I whined.

"But, nothing," she growled. "Get back up there, and _find it_. _Now_." She quickly put the false smile back on when she faced the company, but I just knew the death glare was still focused on me as I turned to leave, the "stop embarrassing me, or else," stare. I'd recognize it anywhere, and I could feel it burning into my back as I left the room.

Realizing that knowing when to cut and run was one of the few things I _did_ know, and know pretty well, I high-tailed it back upstairs as fast as I could.  I sat on the edge of my parents' bed, scuffing at the carpet with the stupid mary-janes, my eyes casting all over their room-full of early-American decor for anything long and gray, and, of course, coming up empty once again.  I considered my options carefully. Sneaking out the back door held a definite appeal, but I knew in the long run that would only end up earning me even worse repercussions- maybe even getting Daddy involved -- and I certainly would never get any wedding cookies or pecan tarts that way.   I sighed and decided I might as well just take my medicine now, and get it over with.

Slowly I made my way back down stairs, feeling like I was descending into an atmosphere of increasingly colder and thicker jello as I went down.  There's nothing worse than having a churning gut-full of cold maternal fear, and having to cope with the commingled scents of a house-full of stale smoke and sickly-sweet roses, and the hairspray and perfume of twenty-three suburban housewives.  I was almost gasping for air by the time I hit the bottom, I was so overcome by my anxiety about being on the receiving end of my mother's wrath, especially in front of her "Special" ladies group.  I stood in the doorway for a full minute before slowly and silently sidling up to my mother.  I stood just a little behind her, trying my level, seven-year-old, best to look both as winsome (and therefore forgivable) and at the same time somehow as unobtrusive as I possibly could.  Mother was still engrossed in her conversation with her friends, and it took her a while to even realize I was there, and yet another beat or two for her to look me over and realize I had once again failed, and returned empty-handed.  It was then I that I made my best possible attempt at a pre-emptive strike, before she could even open her mouth.

"I tried and _tried_ , Mommy," I cried, the tears flowing quickly and easily as I hiccoughed out my tale of woe, "really I did!! But... but... I couldn't find _anything_ like a long gray drawer or a vanilla envelope any... any... _anywhere_...."  At that point I wrenched out several really long, wet sobs, and nearly every lady around the table emitted some form of an "awww" sound in sympathy.  I have no doubt I would have forced the crying gambit if I'd had to, but I have to admit, in all honesty, I was so stressed-out by that point, it was pretty genuine.

The ladies around the table now all seemed to be attempting to hide silent laughter behind their hands or their napkins, for some reason, and my mother now had the queerest expression on her face: definitely _not_ the familiar flare of anger I was expecting.  It seemed to be the most peculiar mixture of sympathy, affection, embarrassment, and suppressed mirth.  I never saw once it on Mother again, and I'm not sure I've ever seen it on anyone else since, either.  Betty Draper was generally _not_ one for spontaneous displays of affection, especially in front of "company," but now, of all the unexpected things, she gently put one arm around me and leaned towards me from her seat at the head of the table, dabbing at my now snot- and tear-covered face with her linen napkin.

"Oh dear," she said, her expression softening into a small knowing smile now as she looked into my eyes.  "Sally, I think you misunderstood me a little.  Let me explain."  She looked up at the ladies and smiled conspiratorially, as if they were all in on her little secret, and she was about to finally let me in on it, too.  "I told you to go to my _'lingerie'_ drawer, dear.  That's a polite way of saying the drawer where I keep my underthings. Do you understand now?"

Did I _understand?_ If there could have been a gigantic light bulb going on over my head like in the cartoons, I couldn't have understood it any better! Why hadn't she just _said_ it was in her _undie_ drawer in the first place, for crying out loud!?!

"And it's not a _vanilla_ envelope, Sally, it's a _manila_ envelope: it's rather large, and kind of a tannish-brown color."

Well, that's a bit of a horse of a different color, too, now, isn't it? I could feel my cheeks pinking up with embarrassment.  I felt understandably resentful that I'd been sent on this stupid errand with bad information in the first place, and then made to feel like a fool in front of all these sniggering ladies because of it - but unfortunately, thanks to the powerlessness of childhood, there was nothing for it now but to just get it over with - to play the thing through to its natural conclusion.

"Do you think you can go get it now?"

I shot her a very brief but very clear "I'm not a complete idiot" glance before I nodded contritely and vanished upstairs.

Once armed with the correct information, I was able to go straight to the object of my quest, of course. I'd certainly watched my mother dress enough times to know darned well where she kept her scanties,  so I opened the drawer in question (which was in fact rather short and brown, not long and gray) and began to root around for said manila envelope.  As I plowed through the familiar assortment of underthings, I fairly quickly located the envelope, buried under everything in the back corner of the drawer.

When I picked it up, I was stopped cold in my tracks by what I saw that lay hidden just underneath the envelope.  Mother's drawer was mostly full of precisely what you would expect, what I had always seen her in,  when I had seen her in such things: a sea of "normal", rather run-of-the-mill panties, girdles, longline bras, and so on, all in the usual shades of white, black, and the occasional "nude", and all in the usual staid nylon tricot, cotton, and spandex with only the most modest lace embellishments. 

But, there, hidden away in that corner, underneath that envelope, I had unearthed one of my Mother's more shall we say "colorful" secrets. I found there a small pile of some things made of very flashy hot pink lace:  definitely _not_ anything I would ever have expected to see on my oh-so-proper Ossining mother, of all people.  I gingerly picked them up and studied them, and was shocked to see it was actually a very tiny, very transparent brassiere and a very skimpy, very frilly garter belt to match:  all in this see-through, frou-frou, hot-pink lace!  These were most definitely _not_ the undergarments of my conservative housewife and mother, who hosted Junior League functions and garden club. These were the underthings of one of _those_ other women my mother spoke of in hushed tones: a _loose_ woman,  a _fast_ woman, a woman who..... _had sex_.  And, even worse... _enjoyed it_.  I'd heard Mother talk disparagingly about that kind of woman more times than I could count (of course, it was always only when she thought I wasn't listening.)   Consequently, it was utterly inconceivable to me, to think about my own mother, not only _owning,_ but _wearing_ such garments, and everything that implied..... Good grief, I was even _less_ ready to think about what the implications of all this were about my Mother and Father, and their life _together._

I dropped the pieces of pink lace as if they were scalding my hands like hot steel, back into their corner of shame in the drawer, and hastily covered it all back up with the proper, familiar housewifely undergarments.  Reeling, I sat on the bed for a minute, the manila envelope held loosely in my hand, forgotten.  My head was literally spinning.  I mean, I had seen a few dirty pictures before, when some of the boys at school (like that Gene kid) had showed them to me.  And those girls in the pictures had all been wearing stuff like what I had just seen!

But my _Mother?_ And _with my Father?_

_And....Here?_ _And on THIS bed, in OUR house_?

I looked at the bed and quickly jumped up as if my legs were spring loaded, as if I'd been sitting on a hot skillet.  I felt flushed, superheated, as if someone had poured boiling water on my face, or like I'd been forced to stay in a very hot shower for way too long.  Suddenly I felt twitchy all over, like I didn't belong in my own skin anymore. My whole world all of a sudden felt upside-down and inside-out.

I ran back downstairs as fast as I could and thrust the envelope at Mother. "There,  you see...." she began, but I was gone before she could even finish.

"Maybe she's not feeling well..." I heard Mrs. Hanson volunteer.  "You know, both of mine have been sick all week..." She wasn't far from the truth: the smell of the roses and the smoke were getting to me again, and I could feel the chicken salad churning around uncertainly in my jittery stomach.

I flew into the kitchen and perched sullenly on the stool, viciously scuffing the hated patent leather shoes over and over again against the metal footrest, while Carla scraped the dishes and put the food away.  She always seemed to have a sixth sense about when I wanted to talk, and when I just needed to be left alone.  After a while, she looked at me curiously, and asked simply, "you all right, child?"  When I nodded, but didn't say anything, she came over and gently felt my forehead.  "Seems fine enough," she said calmly. 

She fixed me a small plate with one Russian Wedding cookie and one lemon tart - about a third of what I might normally have scarfed down in my zeal for the rare bakery treats.  "Try those - eat it slow, now, and see how it sits - you can always have some more later."  Smart woman.  No sense eating eight of them, and just barfing them all up.  And the two pieces were just enough to satisfy and comfort me a little, and provide my fretful mind with something to focus on besides what I'd seen upstairs - but not enough to send my agitated stomach lurching into a complete revolt.

A little while later, Carla looked at me and felt my forehead again.  "You're feeling a little warm to me," she said, although we both knew full well I was perfectly cool.  "Why don't you go on upstairs and get out of those hot clothes and into your pajamas, and have a little rest.  I'll cover for you if your momma comes looking for you."  
I looked at her gratefully and threw my arms around her briefly before I fled upstairs to the asylum of my room.  Carla always was my salvation.  I still miss her to this day. 

Later that night, Daddy came into my room when he got home, just before my bedtime.  As soon as I saw him, I thought of the pink undies and couldn't help but blush bright red, but I still somehow managed to find some comfort in our usual routine.

"What'd you bring me?" I asked, not really caring a fig if he actually had anything for me or not.  It was just a game that had evolved between him and me over the years, and was now a sort of secret ritual between us.  Mother thought it was unseemly, that it made me seem greedy, and that he was always rewarding me for doing nothing.  But Daddy and I enjoyed it, and more often than not, he actually had a little something for me, even if it was just a stick of gum or a fancy colored paper clip from work, or a silly doodle he'd drawn during the day.  The mere act of his handing it to me,  still warm with the heat of his body from the mysterious depths of his pockets, was enough to tell me that he had thought of me at sometime during the day, that he cared about me at least that much, and that was all that mattered. 

 He leaned over and kissed my forehead, smelling like whiskey and cigarettes and himself, and he was just regular old Daddy again, putting the matter of the weird undergarments and all they meant right out of my head, at least for  the moment.  He grinned as he sat down on the edge of my bed,  and brushed my hair out of my eyes with a quick careless gesture,  the same way he did when he pulled my knee socks up for me, which were forever falling down. 

"Hi there, Salamander.  I hear you were the belle of the ball!"

"Oh, Daddy...!" I giggled.

"Mommy said you were a big help today."

"Really," I replied skeptically, one eyebrow raised.

"Really really," he assured me.  "Good job, kiddo.  So I suppose....." he said with a dramatic pause, " that means you might actually deserve this." He produced a big grape Charms Pop,  the Cadillac of lollipops, which he knew was my favorite, no doubt purchased during one of his stops at one of the newsstands on Madison Avenue or in Grand Central.  "But not for tonight, since you've already brushed your teeth, ok?  Save it for the morning." 

"Oh, boy!  Thanks, Daddy!"  He kissed me on the forehead again and stood to say goodnight, his hand on the light switch by the door.  Looking at my handsome father, and holding my new-found treasure as I lay safely ensconced in the comfort of my familiar bed, the trauma and weirdness of the day was almost forgotten.  It had receded now to a vague, niggling sense of unease in the back of my mind, just enough to make me feel a little like I did when I was a dumb little three-year-old, and I needed my Daddy to check under my bed for monsters and ghosts, just so I could feel safe enough to sleep.

"Hey, Daddy?" I stopped him, suddenly reluctant to see him go.

"Yeah, Salamander?"

"Promise me things are never gonna change, that things will always be like this?"

His brow knitted up for a moment before he answered.  His voice was strong and re-assuring, but beneath his usual glib expression I had glimpsed a quick flash of real sadness and pain that I very rarely saw from my father. I know he probably was sure he'd concealed it from me, but I saw it anyway.

"I promise, Sall'," he assured me. "Now get some sleep."

"Night, Daddy."  I put the lollipop carefully on my nightstand, where I could see it in the soft glow of my nightlight, and snuggled down under the covers as my father left the room,  suddenly feeling very weary, and craving the peaceful escape of sleep and my simple childhood dreams.

In retrospect, it was probably even sillier of Dad to have given me that answer than it was for me to have asked him the question in the first place.   But I also know now that, as a parent, sometimes you simply have to tell your kids what they most _need_ _to hear_ , so that they can sleep and feel safe, much more than you need to tell them what might be the absolute, God's honest _truth_.   It's certainly not the worst kind of lie in the world, by far.  And looking back now, I realize it was probably what he wanted to believe, as well.  

~End~


End file.
